


The Stuff of Ballads

by formidablesummer



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: DRK, F/M, Flirting, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Kissing, Pre-Relationship, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 21:30:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13062531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formidablesummer/pseuds/formidablesummer
Summary: An exploration of the Haurchefant/WoL relationship (and beyond) from a DRK-centric perspective (where applicable) featuring my OC. Expect a combination of fluff, angst, grief, and lots and lots of elezen. There will be a decent amount of jumping around in the timeline, so please hold on tight. I claim the right to go back and add infinite Camp Dragonhead fluff pieces as I see fit.





	1. Drink Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grief-heavy chapter. Fluff will follow, I promise, so please check back in. Set between 3.0 and 3.3. I borrow heavily from the French and Japanese language localizations so if the dialogue is different from how you remember, now you know why!

She couldn’t remember the last time she fell asleep without a significant struggle. The chirurgeons told her that it was not uncommon for those who had witnessed their comrades fall in battle to experience bouts of insomnia. She knew this, of course, but it did little to quell the quiet dread lingering in the back of her mind. It had been mere moons since she recovered that darkened fragment of herself–that jealous part of her which viewed the title of Warrior of Light as a noose rather than a mantle. Was it this shade of herself who tormented her at night? She had been warned that her power would come at a cost–that if she drank too deeply of the abyss it would consume her–and she wondered if her inability to ever truly rest had been wrought by her own greedy hand. **  
**

But what do chirurgeons know of dark arts? When she had raised the question they spat their dismissal at her as if she spoke of heretical magics. The Ishgardian old guard continued to cling tightly to their ignorance, it seemed. They told her she needed only to relax. She should try to concentrate on her breathing. Concentrate on her heartbeat…  _our_  heartbeat.

It was the nebulous borderland of sleep which she dreaded above all else. There, just beyond the reach of unconsciousness, shadowy tendrils of thoughts that were not quite her own tugged at her mind. In the grip of this vile purgatory she lay vulnerable to frantic, phantom whispers which gleefully reminded her of those long since dead–some by her own hand and others as a result of her weakness.

That night, it was the middle son of House Fortemps who plagued her thoughts. It wasn’t the first time he had kept her from sleep–far from it. In what now seemed merely a distant memory, it wasn’t a spectre that haunted her but the image of a living man. A man who glowed with all the soft, golden lustre imbued him by the mind of a woman in love. Those were days when laughter yet rang in the halls of Fortemps Manor, of breathless kisses stolen in its empty rooms, of time slipping by unnoticed in late night conversation, of wine glasses filled and left forgotten as they drank of each other instead.

On some nights, struggling to sleep somewhere far away from the warmth of his bed, it was her longing for him that kept her from sleep. On yet others, when darker thoughts held her suspended in a waking nightmare, she would sometimes find peace in the memory of his hand stroking her hair. But when he had been robbed of his life so too had she been robbed of the ability to find solace in the softness and warmth he had once brought her. Instead, the only warmth she could find in his memory was the heat of his life’s blood on her hands as it spilled from his body onto the Vault’s marble floors.

His death had paid for her life. He would never wake. She would never sleep. Perhaps it was simply a fair exchange.

_“Your smile, it is so beautiful. Please… do not forget mine,”_  he had urged her with his final breath.

She had not forgotten, of course. How could she? And yet she was not quite ready to remember.

A second warning she had received echoed in her mind.

_Tread carefully, for without a flame to guide your way the abyss will swallow you._

At the time, she had not felt the need to hearken to these words, for in this too Haurchefant had been her shield. Little did she know how quickly her steadfast beacon’s light would dim; that, at the highest pitch of her anguish, the raw and dangerous well from which she drew power would swell, bubble, and overflow to become a raging ocean.

And yet she had not drown.

She refused to let Haurchefant’s sacrifice be squandered. She would not let Estinien, who had pulled her from the Vault floor and lent her his strength when she had none, remain a plaything for the beast that slaughtered his family. She would not let the religious zealots and their sham religion trample over the bright future Aymeric envisioned for Ishgard.

She was still taking in water, she knew, but she would swallow the whole twelves-damned sea if she had to.

She  _would not_  drown. 


	2. The Things We Do For Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several months after their first meeting, the Warrior of Light pays Lord Haurchefant an impromptu visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during the 2.1 MSQ of the same name. Inspired by Haurchefant's Japanese dialogue.

For the first time during her tenure as a Scion, Eirlys was grateful for being the inevitable recipient of all their mundane and undignified chores. They were in the midst of their move to Mor Dhona and instead of being tasked with something befitting her strength and stature (such as, say, carrying boxes) she was instead sent on an errand to pick up tea. Tataru had, in a frazzled state bordering on panic, demanded that Eirlys fetch Highland Tea leaves as if the very lives of their order depended on the generously caffeinated drink. As it turned out, the lalafellin woman had an acquaintance whom she knew always kept this miraculous herb in stock: Medguistl, the cook at Camp Dragonhead.

 _Camp Dragonhead._ Her heart had skipped a beat when she heard the words. She wasn't sure if Tataru had noticed her sudden rush of enthusiasm when she learnt of her destination but Eirlys _galloped_ back to her room. Upon reaching her chambers, she threw her bag onto her cot and began rummaging through her belongings with an urgency more befitting a woman preparing to flee her home during a fire. She was scouring her bedside table for the small tin she kept there, thinking it would make a decent container to store tea in, when the source of her excitement caught her eye: the pile of correspondence she had received from the commander of Camp Dragonhead. The stack of letters, each faintly worn from being so often unfolded and re-folded, sat on the lower shelf of the table on top of a piece of twine she had meant to use to bind them together for storage.

She plucked one from the pile and opened it, glancing over the swirls of dark ink upon the page. It was one of his more candid letters-- _You are ever_ _the last thing on my mind before sleep--The distance has been unkind to us both but I yet cling to hope--Someday_. As she got lost in his words for the hundredth time she found herself absentmindedly stroking the back of the page where it rested atop her fingertips as if somewhere, in the world he painted for her through his letters--she was instead grazing her fingers over his skin as he spoke to her.

It was a sensation that was yet foreign to her--the feeling of his skin beneath her fingertips--but things might have been different had she been but a little more selfish the night she saw him last. He had lamented that they would likely not see each other again for quite some time and implored her to stay the night. The urgency of her mission and the impatience of her comrades, however, demanded that she be on her way promptly.

And yet she could not stop thinking about his invitation. The regret she felt for denying his request grew with each passing day. She would lay awake at night, thinking about him and imagining what might have transpired had she stayed. She replayed the events that had happened during their time together at Camp Dragonhead over and over in her mind. She remembered how, as if he were a hero from a ballad, he had rushed in on the back of a chocobo, shield in hand, and put himself between her and the axe that was destined for her heart. She, refusing to be outdone, had in turn shielded him from the savage clawing of the wyvern that had been called down upon them. After their victory, their hearts thrumming in violent rhythm from the thrill of combat, they had exchanged breathless and fervent praise for each other. They laughed--narrowly escaping death did tend to have a cheering effect--and they had shared an embrace that lasted just long enough to plant a seed of wonder in her mind. She had once thought herself above the appeal of such classically romantic stories but it was an entirely different thing to go through such an experience in the flesh. They had saved each other--and Haurchefant’s dearest friend, Francel, in the process--and she felt a sudden and peculiar closeness to the man as a consequence.

She remembered trailing slightly behind him as they were trudging their way back towards the garrison after the battle. Joy and relief lit up his features as he was talking excitedly with Francel about everything that had transpired. She found herself looking--no, _staring_ \--at his rather handsome face in profile and she realized that her heart had begun to race once more. It was in that moment that he caught her gaze. She looked away as quickly as she could but as warmth spread across her face like wildfire she knew the damage had already been done. Eirlys pretended to be wholly focused on the snowy surface beneath her feet as she walked, but she could tell out of the corner of her eye that he had let his own gaze linger on her for far longer than was decent. It had been this exchange, she concluded, that must have emboldened him so when he requested she stay the night.

But such things were not meant to be; or so it seemed until one night, in a fit of wine-fueled courage, she set quill to parchment and began what would become a veritable flurry of correspondence between herself and the young elezen lord. She had always been an early riser but it was with a newfound vigor, despite her restless nights, that she would race to the postmaster each morning in hopes a letter graced with Haurchefant’s flowing script would be waiting for her. Eventually, over the intervening moons, something resembling a romance began to take form from ink and parchment. But ink and paper romances were flimsy indeed. And now here she was, about to travel across Eorzea, clinging to the fragile hope that their relationship might not be confined to the pages she had begun to collect.

The sound of metal clanging against stone followed by muffled cursing brought her back to the present. Someone, she guessed, had dropped a piece of furniture in their attempt to move it to the cart waiting outside. She eyed the remaining pile of letters on her nightstand. In the hustle and bustle of the move she worried that some well-meaning member of the order would “help” her in the effort to pack and this precious pile of correspondence would be lost. The only solution, then, was to put them in the only place she knew they would be kept safe.

She folded the letter in her hand back up and reached for the remaining pieces of parchment that were scattered haphazardly across the shelf. She had long ago ceased trying to keep them stored in a tidy fashion but the time had come organize them for the sake of keeping them safe. She shuffled them together, tied the piece of twine around them, and placed them carefully into her open pack.

 _One less thing to worry about while I'm gone,_ she thought.

And if things didn't go quite like they did in her dreams, well--she could always use them as kindling.

  
\--------

When she finally arrived at the garrison, she began to weigh her course of action. In truth, she didn't need to speak to Haurchefant about the damned tea leaves whatsoever and could probably come and go without him being any the wiser. Therefore, she would need to find an excuse to see him.

Thus her stratagem took form: she would obtain the tea from Medigustl first, feign hunger whilst inquiring with her about that night’s dinner, and subsequently raise the topic of dining together with Lord Haurchefant himself. It was a reasonably straightforward plan but she couldn’t help but feel that it was a bit lacking given the grandiose, romantic tone of the last time they had seen each other. More than anything, however, she simply wanted to get her errand over with so that she could be free to do as she pleased--and so she made way for the kitchens.

As soon as she had set her plan into motion she was thwarted: Medguistl informed her that her stores had recently been depleted and so sent Eirlys to the camp’s wine merchant who then in turn told her she’d have to--

“... Go pick the tea leaves myself?” She stared at him aghast. This was altogether more than she had signed up for. Being forced to quit Camp Dragonhead--that most desirable of destinations--to harvest tea leaves by the edge of some sodding frozen river? What had been a quick errand she could use a convenient excuse to go on an impromptu date had instead turned into a chore that was burning up her precious “free” time. Her ire towards Tataru for sending her on this cursed task began to rise. If she was going to see any of this through she would have go about things in the reverse order: see Haurchefant first, freeze-half-to-death-while-picking-tea- leaves-after-dark-in-the-middle-of-Coerthas-for-a-secretary-who- _could-not-possibly-be-grateful-enough-for-all-of-her-suffering_ second.

Several deep breaths later, she made her way to the building where his office was located and stood at the door. And she stood. And _stood_.

 _This is ridiculous,_ she thought. Three or four gods under her belt and yet when confronted by the prospect of a mere conversation with the second son of House Fortemps she was suddenly unable to summon a single onze of courage. She exhaled sharply and in a moment of strength she finally walked through the door.

Haurchefant was standing in front of his desk, speaking to a young elezen woman who she imagined was one of his subordinates. Eirlys approached him directly, waving away a man who attempted to intercept her to inquire about what business she might have with House Fortemps. She didn’t want to be rude, but she knew she had to immediately place herself in Haurchefant’s presence else she would be taken in by the all-too-sensible idea to just be on her damned way already. He must have heard her approach for when she was just over a yalm away he turned his head and looked at her.

She was not prepared for this--in all the time she spent daydreaming about this moment she had imagined that she would be her usual self: calm, collected, and in charge of the situation. He was merely looking at her--a man, she now realized, capable of leveling her with his eyes alone--but his gaze made her heartbeat thunder so loudly in her ears that it drowned out her thoughts. All those carefully planned things she intended to say to him had turned to dust in her skull; she was completely at Haurchefant’s mercy and he had not even yet spoken a word.

“Eirlys,” he beamed, his voice filled with warmth and bewilderment so intense that it threatened to overwhelm his ability to speak, “I had been wondering why Coerthas felt markedly less cold today. Now that you’re here I believe I have the answer.”

 _Damn him_. She knew from his letters that he was a flirt--and a skilled one at that--but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her blush. It had been a prize too easily won during their last encounter and this time she intended to make him work for it.

 _"_ How long have you had that line hidden up your sleeve, I wonder?” she asked, her words seeming to spill from her mouth before she had ever willed them to do so.

“A _line_? My dear friend, I am merely making a truthful observation. The Bringer of Light does by necessity also bring warmth, does she not?” He stepped towards her as if he meant to embrace her but he instead stopped himself at arm’s length. His hesitation pleased her; such a diffident display suggested a similar ardor was brewing within him as well. After a moment he finally reached for her hand which she gave to him eagerly.

“Did you travel from the Observatorium? How was the road? Ah, your poor hands. You really ought to wear decent gloves in this weather.” He proceeded to rub both of his hands rapidly over hers in an apparent effort to warm them. However, his motions soon slowed into something more resembling a _caress_.

_Dear gods, the forwardness of this man._

“Haurchefant,” she urged him gently. He turned his attention to her face and studied her expression, continuing to trace his thumbs tenderly over her now thoroughly-warmed hands. While she was very glad for his apparent display of affection, she had always been wary of engaging in such… _activities_ in the presence of others. After a moment he seemed to register her discomfort.

“Ah, forgive me. Would you perhaps fancy a walk around the grounds?” he asked.

“I would be delighted.” She felt a keen sense of relief at having been absolved of the responsibility of finding a way to get him alone. In retrospect, she should have expected it’d be as easy as it was given his _invitation_ the last time they had seen each other.

They made their way outside and she followed him up the steps leading to the aetheryte plaza. Upon reaching the top of the stairs he offered her his arm--a gesture which she found to be a bit dated for her own personal tastes but, well, _when in Coerthas--_ and she accepted it.

“So, what brings you this far north?” he asked, giving her a polite smile as they walked.

“Tea,” she said in a tone as if the single word should have been a sufficient explanation. Of course, she knew it would only spur him to question her further.

“Tea? You traveled all this way for a warm drink?” he paused a moment as if thinking hard on her statement. “Hm, I don't think so. You must have had a stronger motivation to make such an effort. Was it a tea _date_ , perhaps? Has some Ishgardian man captured your fancy?”

He grinned at her, a mischievous, flirtatious grin and she couldn't help but return the expression. She turned away from him and bit her lip while she contemplated her response.

“Hmm, mayhaps there is a man.” She felt her smile widen involuntarily at the admission, her eyes now fixated on the side of his face as they walked. “But I'm afraid that is wholly unrelated to the tea--and to why I'm here.”

“ _Wholly_ unrelated to why you're here? You wound me.” They reached a door leading to one of the watch towers which Haurchefant opened and allowed her to pass through. She turned to face him as she heard the sound of the door shutting behind them.

They were alone.

“I've missed you,” he said in a low, hushed voice. His tone had shifted suddenly from that of playfulness to something more akin to anxiety. “I wasn't sure when--or _if_ \--you would return to me but full glad am I to see you again.”

“Of course I came back. How could you ever doubt such a thing?” Her voice mirrored his softness, seemingly stifled by an unseen weight which had settled inside her chest.

He stepped towards her but stopped a few paces away. Silence fell over them as they stood there, looking at each other. The ease and confidence with which they had been flirting had given way to nervousness and uncertainty. It was clear to Eirlys now that they were both seeking an answer to the same question; a question neither wanted to ask out of fear of each other’s answer.

He searched her face carefully before moving to close the space between them until they were mere ilms apart. Her eyes, wide with wonder and anticipation, darted back and forth between his before finally settling her gaze on his lips.

He leaned in. She closed her eyes, but the contact she expected with her mouth did not come. Instead, she felt the skin of his cheek slide across hers before his lips pressed against her neck at the base of her ear--gentle yet sure. Soft strands of his hair brushed against her face and she felt lightheaded as she breathed in the scent of him--wood smoke and leather and earth. When the kiss ended, he lingered there, his breath warm against her neck. After a moment, he pulled his head back to look at her again; they were so close to each other now that his lips and chin obscured most of her field of vision.

His timidity was not something she had anticipated--in all the words they had exchanged, both in writing and in person, he had never seemed particularly shy. Perhaps, then, his hesitation was a result of his uncertainty about how _she_ felt? She leaned her body into his and placed her hands on top of his shoulders but he did not react to her subtle encouragement. Instead, they stood there pressed against one another, feeling the steady rhythm of each other's breathing. She understood now: he had posed the question and it was her turn to give him her answer.

She tilted her head upwards and tentatively brought her mouth on top of his, their lips askew as they kissed. For all their intimacy he felt strange and unfamiliar to her in a way that only further enticed her. She pulled back a short distance, this time letting her lips brush over his, exploring their surface, feeling the heat of his breath, denying him as he tried to catch her mouth with his before finally pressing her lips against his once more. The anticipation that had been building between them for moons made her impatient; the sensation of his skin on hers thrilled her; it was also frustrating; she needed him-- _more_ of him. She parted her lips again, the tip of her tongue glancing his lower lip before kissing him, deeper this time, causing him to sigh in response. She cupped his face with her hands, feeling the sharp angle of the jawline she had spent so long gazing at from afar, then curled the fingers of one hand delicately around his neck. She was desperate to taste him, to know him in ways that would make her blood feel hot and thick in her veins.

One of his hands pressed against the small of her back and the other found purchase in her hair, the hesitation having disappeared from his touch as he returned her affection with fervor. The sensation of his hands, his lips, his skin, his mouth, his tongue blended together into a rush of heat and softness and wetness and _him_ . She grasped his shoulders and clung to him as if he were the only solid land in the middle of a raging tempest as wave after wave of emotion crashed over her. All the longing, doubt, insecurity, and fear that had accumulated within her over the past several moons had dissolved and given way to elation. In this moment she was beholden to no other but the one of her choosing. He was hers. _Finally_ , she was his.

Breathless, they finally parted and Haurchefant rested his forehead against hers. His hand, still nestled in her hair, smoothed the copper strands against her scalp.

“Gods, I don't ever want to stop,” he whispered. He exhaled in what sounded like half a sigh of relief and half a laugh.

“Nor do I,” Eirlys returned.

“I feel like such a fool. I didn’t think you’d--”

She drew him back in and silenced him with her lips.

“Aye, a fool you are--flirting with me like that in front of everyone. You know as well as I that we’d do well to be discreet.” She didn’t know exactly what sort of a controversy would be stirred up by his involvement with an outsider but from what she had gathered those outside of House Fortemps would not take so kindly to the news. And that was to say nothing of how an affair with an Ishgardian might compromise her necessary political neutrality as a Scion.

“As discreet as disappearing together to an unoccupied watchtower?” he replied with a laugh, affectionately brushing the back of his hand across her cheek.

She grinned. He was right, of course.

“Mayhaps we’d best not linger here much longer, then. Besides, I was hoping that you might find time to dine with me this evening before I have to return to my duties.” She did, she reminded herself, come here in hopes of a proper date.

“Ah yes, the tea.” He smiled at her. “Forgive me but it seems I had somehow forgotten all about that.” He punctuated the statement with a final kiss to her forehead before continuing.

“It would be my honor to host such a distinguished guest. I shall inquire about some wine as well. I imagine we will have much and more to discuss.”


	3. Blending In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude at Camp Dragonhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My current two (!) chapters I'm working on are taking longer than expected, so in the interest of having an update this month I decided to post one of my drabbles from the FFXIV Write 2017 event. I was planning on including it *anyway* but it just doesn't belong exactly here. It will be out of place for the time being, so please forgive me--and please enjoy!
> 
> This takes place between 2.55 and 3.0.

“Are you sure this is strictly necessary?” **  
**

Eirlys was standing with her arms straight out to the side, legs shoulder-width apart. Gloved hands tugged and pulled at the chain mail which fit a bit too snugly about her torso. She resisted the movement as best as she could, but the force being applied to the garment was steadily escalating.

“Completely!” Haurchefant said from his kneeling position on the ground behind her. “Should anyone come looking for you it is indubitably true that you would best escape notice if you were wearing House Fortemps colors.”

He stood and came around her front to face her and examined his handiwork with an air of pride. With no small amount of relief, Eirlys finally let her arms drop. The armor Ishgardian knights wore was not the highest quality armor she had ever donned but it was certainly the  _heaviest_.

“And tell me, my friend, how many Roegadyn women–or men, for that matter–does House Fortemps have in its employ?”

A smile tugged at a corner of Haurchefant’s mouth. “Ah, I had anticipated this line of questioning. At a distance, I doubt anyone could tell you apart from an elezen. You are nearly of a height with me, after all.”

She took a few steps toward him until he reflexively wrapped his arms loosely about her waist.

“Don’t you think,” she said, drawing a finger affectionately along the top of his ear, “that they might notice that something is missing?”

He gently grasped her raised hand and guided it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles firmly before letting his hand drop to rest on his chest. He peered down at her, some unseen thought process seemingly hard at work behind his eyes.

“Well, now that you mention it, the armor is rather ill-suited for a splendidly statuesque figure such as yours.”

They stood there, quietly smiling at each other. She knew this had largely been a ploy to distract her from recent events but it had been a much more  _successful_  ploy than she had anticipated. The past few days had been nothing short of traumatic but somehow, with Haurchefant by her side, she found herself feeling curiously hopeful.

“You’re right,” he said finally, a grin spreading across his face. He leaned down and gave her a long, lingering kiss. “This was a terrible mistake. We’d best get you out of that armor  _immediately_.” 


End file.
